


The Fastest Thing In Starfleet

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, Not So Secret Now, Post Episode S2 E 23 "Regeneration", Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3850837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Chief Engineer, Commander Tucker is nominally in charge of it.   Lieutenant Reed is only too aware there’s one thing faster than Enterprise’s Warp 5 engine, and his secret lover isn’t necessarily in full control of that…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fastest Thing In Starfleet

**Author's Note:**

> Set the morning after the events of 2.23 "Regeneration" with all the spoilers you'd expect.
> 
> One of my recent fics, transferred across from the Warp 5 Complex.

“Doctor, are you sure you’re up to this?” Lieutenant Malcolm Reed regarded the pyjama-clad Denobulan with alarm as he swayed his way into the Situation Room on the Captain’s arm. Before the ship’s physician could protest the slender Armoury Officer shuffled sideways, giving the newcomer room to lean against the rectangular console between himself and Commander Tucker as Captain Archer moved to his usual station at the desk’s head. “Bed rest is the only cure, you know.”

Ensigns Sato and Mayweather grinned hugely at the Englishman’s uncanny impersonation of their friend’s cheerfully chiding tone. Phlox, gripping the edge of the console, raised a fond smile for his favourite patient.

“And also the most frustrating, Lieutenant, as you have pointed out quite forcefully in the past,” he replied, pretending not to hear the sighs of relief that rippled among his human friends at the strength which had returned to his voice. “I’m feeling much better this morning, and – as I told Captain Archer yesterday – I believe an alarming experience I had while infected by the alien nanoprobes is relevant to this meeting.”

“Alarmin’ experience? You mean more’n bein’ infected by their freaky damn techno-virus?” Trip Tucker blurted from his right side. The Denobulan was not alone in grimacing.

“The whole experience was certainly not pleasant Commander,” he agreed mildly. “From the initial infection to the aftermath of the treatment. I’ve logged the dosage calculations I made for the omicron radiation therapy with Starfleet Medical, Captain. I sincerely hope they will never need to refer to my findings again.”

“We should be so lucky,” Reed muttered, scowling. T’Pol arched a finely-marked eyebrow across the console at him.

“We believe this species originates in the Delta Quadrant, Lieutenant. It may take several hundred years for them to reach this region of space again.”

“Well, they managed it a hundred years ago,” Reed pointed out, his irrefutable logic bringing a grin, Jonathan Archer noticed, to the full lips of their Chief Engineer. “Which rather implies that time travel exists, and their species is well ahead of us in warp drive development. No offence, Commander.”

“None taken, Lieutenant,” Trip assured him grandly. “Cap’n, how d’ we know where they came from? Maybe I missed somethin’, but it doesn’t seem to me we had enough communication with them to ask! We don’t even know what they call themselves!”

“Suits me,” Malcolm grunted. “There are times when first contact probably ought to be last contact, for the good of all parties!”

“Indeed.” Trip wasn’t sure if it was possible for a Denobulan to shudder, but Phlox was sure as hell giving it a try. “As a very wise young friend of mine remarked a few days ago: _I don’t have a problem with technology, so long as it stays outside of my skin_.”

The Armoury Office’s dark brows rose to Vulcanesque heights. “You’re surely not allowing that I got something _right_ , Doctor?” he asked mildly. The bright blue-white eyes of the ship’s physician almost twinkled at him.

“I do allow my _enthusiasm_ to override my judgement on occasion, Lieutenant; a flaw I intend to correct should we encounter any technologies similar to these creatures’ in the future!”

“Leave paranoia to me, Phlox.” Kindly, the Englishman patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’m much better at it than you; don’t you agree, Captain?”

“Fortunately for us.” Archer smiled at the younger man. “We have Phlox to thank for estimating the location of these beings’ homeworld and Starfleet has, by our guess, two hundred years to figure out a defence against them. Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind telling the staff about the experience you reported to me…”

“During the period of my – infection – it seemed to me that some kind of telepathic link had been formed between me and the aliens.” Phlox looked from one serious face to the next, reading scepticism in almost all of them. “They weren't trying to communicate with me as such; it was more a matter of my being privy to their thoughts. The noise was rather overwhelming at times.”

He paused, sucking in a deep breath. Strong, supportive hands came down on his shoulders from either side. “I realise that, as Subcommander T’Pol has pointed out, I was under a great deal of _stress_ at the time, but I am absolutely certain I didn’t imagine it. The numbers I heard were translated by the computer into a set of spatial co-ordinates, and traced deep into the Delta Quadrant.”

“Traced back to their homeworld?” Travis questioned, of the captain rather than the physician. Archer nodded sharply.

“That’s our speculation. And giving that home world the co-ordinates of ours.”

“Just as well the Delta Quadrant’s such a long ride,” Tucker grunted. “Doc, I don’t get it. You say there was a telepathic link, but they weren't tryin’ to tell you anythin'?”

“They seemed barely aware of my existence, Commander, and I certainly didn’t identify an individual voice.” The Denobulan matched the Chief Engineer’s frown. “It was as if I was connected to some _collective_ consciousness; as if the thoughts were not mine, or his or hers – simply ours.”

“Surely that’s not possible?” Travis blurted. “Not that I’m doubting what you went through, Doc, but…”

“The Vulcan Science Directorate has stated that any form of collective consciousness is improbable,” T’Pol informed them.

“And that’s the end of that, huh?” Tucker questioned. Phlox smiled.

“The Science Directorate is rather _reluctant_ to embrace changing theories, Commander. In spite of our evidence to the contrary, they’re still denying the probability of time travel, I believe, Subcommander?”

It was always entertaining, the Chief Engineer considered, to watch their two alien staff members disagreeing. To humans, Phlox’s more flexible ideology always seemed a damned sight more logical than their resident Vulcan’s rigid adherence to doctrine.

“It _would_ explain a few things, Captain.” From the Denobulan’s other side, Reed rocked back onto his heels, fixing his commanding officer with a meditative stare. “After all, did _you_ hear orders being given on the transport? If they have some form of collective mental process they wouldn’t need vocal instruction.”

“The voice when they hailed us sounded – odd.” Hoshi leaned forward, shaken by the vividness of the memory. “It was one voice, but it seemed to be made up of different threads: as if there was more than one tone within it. I could go over it again, Sir…”

“Then there’s that defensive shielding of theirs,” the Armoury Officer continued, acknowledging his colleague’s point with a crisp nod. “Without some kind of link, how could they adapt to our weapons? If somebody shoots me with a disruptor, Sir, you don’t automatically develop a defence against it, and yet these creatures do.”

“Now that,” Tucker remarked solemnly, “would be one helluva useful trick around here.”

“Nor for the first person to be shot,” Reed murmured, one corner of his mouth lifting into a familiar half-smirk. Everyone except T’Pol smiled. “I would have liked a closer look at their defensive capabilities: those forcefields they use are light years ahead of anything we’re working on, but I doubt they’d be terribly obliging if we’d asked for a few tips.”

“Since they wouldn’t even give us their name before starting with the threats, I expect you’re right.” Their Communications Officer had been particularly frustrated, Reed suspected, during recent days. Hoshi hated to admit he might be right in suggesting that the business end of a sharp stick was the only language some species might communicate in at all. “The research team…”

“Completely transformed. I’ll have you check over the bioscans I took aboard the transport when you’re back on duty, Doctor, but it looks to me like there was nothing anyone could have done for them.”

“I’m sure you're right, Captain.” Absently the Denobulan rubbed the puncture marks on his neck where the infected Tarkelian had injected his nanoprobes. “My immune system slowed the technology down, but it was adapting at a remarkable rate. A less well-defended species would have a matter of minutes to affect a cure, or….”

He waved his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “You did the best thing you could in destroying their ship, Captain. Having experienced a piece of their fate, I can at least reassure you on that.”

“You know best, Doctor.” From the corner of his eye Archer spied his head of Security giving his back a tentative stretch. “You okay, Malcolm?”

“Fine, Sir.” The crisp response was spoiled by an uncontrollable wince. “Just a bit sore where my spine connected with a bulkhead.”

“You should have come to Sickbay, Lieutenant,” Phlox chided, earning a dismissive wave of the hand from his neighbour.

“Physician, heal thyself. I’m all right, really. A bit stiff and slightly bruised, that’s all.”

“Malcolm, I never thought.” Archer’s mouth hung open, self-reproach narrowing his shadowed green eyes. “I should’ve had you go get checked over as soon as we got back…”

“We were needed on the bridge, Sir: and anyway I’ve been knocked about by real experts in the past. Don’t _fuss_ , Phlox; I’m probably nearer to fine than you, and anyway, Ensign Cutler was very helpful.”

“Yeah, when I bullied you into comming her!” Commander Tucker had been shuffling throughout his colleague’s protesting speech, getting, Archer noted, progressively redder and more agitated by the younger man’s dogged reassurances. “Cap’n, he couldn’t even bend to get his own boots off – don’t you go arguin’ with me, Malcolm Reed, I was there! And how you were plannin’ to wash your hair when you couldn’t even get your arms up to grab the soap from the bathroom shelf… dammit, you great stubborn Limey mule, you’re black ‘n blue all over and I know it, so quit tellin’ everybody you’re _fine_ , okay?”

It wasn’t until his rant faded that he realised people were staring at him, some with bemusement, others with frank avidity, and most with big, silly grins. “Um, Trip? Did you just admit to being in Malcolm’s bathroom last night?” Archer managed. The Southerner’s mouth worked marvellously but no sound emerged.

Reed expelled a gusty sigh. “Trip, love,” he said, affection warming the chill of exasperation he couldn’t quite keep from his tone. “Didn’t I warn you that Warp 9 gob of yours would drop us both in it one day? I’m sorry for the surprise, Captain: we rather intended to break the news in private.”

“Um, yeah. Sorry Mal, I didn’t stop to think.” If it were possibly, Archer thought, his old friend’s colour had just raised another notch to match a ten-degree temperature rise beneath his skin. “Uh, me and Malcolm here, we’re together, see. I saw the state of his back last night, and I’m tellin’ you, Doc, if you’d not been so damn sick yourself I’d ‘ve dragged ‘im right down to Sickbay for a shot of – somethin’!”

“Perhaps you might persuade Mr Reed to call in after his shift, Commander.” The prospect of attending to a patient appeared to lift the Denobulan’s weariness; he stood straighter, removing one hand from the desk as he swivelled to beam at the recalcitrant Englishman. “You were thrown back against the wall by one of those creatures, Lieutenant? They have remarkable physical strength…”

“Don’t let him hide the bruises on his neck either, Doc.” Their secret was out; no harm in pushing the boundaries a little if it got Malcolm the treatment he wouldn’t ask for. Archer groaned.

“That thing had you hanging by the throat. Hell Malcolm, you must be aching all over today!”

“I shan’t be doing any yoga for a few days, Captain.” _Or any making out with Traitor Tucker_ , his eyes warned as they rested on the Chief Engineer’s slowly-normalising complexion. “But it could have been a lot worse. Trip’s an old fusspot, aren’t you, darling?”

“Um, Malcolm? You enjoyin’ this by any chance?”

“Seeing you blush? Perish the thought!”

“I’m warnin’ you now, Loo-tenant, if you weren’t black an’ blue all over I’d be…”

“Running for your life in fear of a proper kicking?” Merriment gleamed silver in the younger man’s changeable eyes. At the far end of the table, Travis sniggered.

_Damn_ , Trip thought. He couldn’t resist a playful Reed, and anyway he’d been the one loudly proclaiming all their sneaking around unnecessary. “Do I need to fear for my life, Malcolm?” he asked, embarrassed all over again by the throatiness of what had been meant as a joking question.

Reed pursed his lips contemplatively: on either side of Tucker, Phlox and Archer both clearly heard the Southerner’s sharp intake of breath, and the human at least could take a pretty good guess at its cause. Considering the subject with puckered lips and mischief-bright eyes, Enterprise’s stoic Armoury Officer looked almost unbearably kissable.

And _that_ , Jonathan Archer informed himself sternly, was not a thought he ever wished to have about any member of his crew.

“I suppose – considering I might not have been able to crawl out of bed without the rather wonderful massage you gave me this morning – your life is probably safe enough for the time being,” Malcolm announced, offering a hand to steady a Denobulan who looked close to swooning with excited curiosity. Trip made an odd half-bow.

“Well thank y’ kindly, Lieutenant. You’re not steamin’ mad at me?”

All the mirth he had been schooling from his expression blazed through Malcolm Reed’s brilliant smile. “I’ve been on pins waiting for you to stick both size elevens into your great flapping gob at once, Trip! It’s almost a relief that it’s over with, actually. Captain…”

“What you do off-duty is no business of mine, Malcolm; and as your friend, I’ve got to say – it’s about damned time!”

“Ah. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Captain,” the Englishman stuttered, staring at his commanding officer of more than two years as if he had just revealed himself as a Suliban spy. Trip snickered.

“Cap’n? You been keepin’ an eye on us or somethin’?”

Archer clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Trip, how long have we known each other? I’ve seen you interested before, and I know how hard it can be for the object of your interest to escape.”

“Can’t imagine I tried very hard if you’ll excuse the interruption, Sir,” Malcolm put in with a grin. Trip reddened again.

“You two gonna make a double-act outta tormentin’ me for the rest of the mission or something?”

“Oh, at least.” Malcolm answered at once. The taller man’s face split in a mammoth, besotted grin.

“Aw, Mal!” he murmured. Unobtrusively, Phlox inched back until there was space enough for a slender man to slide between himself and the console. Archer cleared his throat.

“I think we can end the briefing on that note,” he said, striving for (and nearly achieving) a businesslike tone. “Phlox, take things easy. T’Pol, I expect the High Command would appreciate a full report. Trip – see Malcolm doesn’t get stubborn about medical treatment. Dismissed.”

He watched them hurrying to their duty stations, Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer headed together to the turbolift and their own departments: matching strides, the backs of their hands almost brushing as their arms swung, close colleagues and good friends of two years’ standing. Nobody would suspect anything more.

With a smile on his face, Jonathan Archer climbed to his chair in the middle of the bridge. Malcolm Reed was a man of a different stamp to the others he had seen his friend fall for. No bad thing, he figured. None of those relationships, with men or women, had ever looked, from a friend’s perspective, likely to last.

This one? As T’Pol called the Captain’s attention to an unusual reading from the Minshara class planet coming onto the sensors’ extreme range, Jonathan allowed himself an inward whoop of joy. This one just might be strong enough to buck the trend.

After all, there was a solid body of friendship, shared experience and sympathy to underlie the inevitable more basic attraction. Trip and Malcolm. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed.

And he figured Trip might be right; that bright, sardonic young Englishman really might form half of one heck of a tormenting tag team for as long as their mission might last.


End file.
